Chaos, Inc
by moonyprof
Summary: The boys are grown now. Cartman's a Congressman in trouble, and Butters has to leave his double life in South Park to help him: a espionage thriller and a romance. WendyCartman, Butters?, DougieFilmore, plus more, both slash and het how like life.
1. Stotch's Gas N' Garage

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter One: Stotch's Gas N' Garage

The young woman in the scarf and yellow raincoat looked at the seat of the mechanic's light blue coveralls. It wasn't so much that the seat was an appealing thing to look at, but at the moment, it was the only part of him he was presenting to the view. At last he surfaced from the interior of the hood, oil on his right cheek, thinning blond hair sticking in all directions.

"I'm su-sorry, ma'am," he said, "bu-but I haven't got the foggiest idea what's wrong with your car here." He smiled apologetically and rubbed his oily hands together.

"You don't?" she said.

"Nope," he said cheerfully.

"But I don't understand," the woman said, shivering a little. It was a wet, raw, early spring day, and it would have been nice to be driving back to Denver in a reliable car with a heater that worked instead of standing here. "I asked downtown and they all said to come to Stotch's Gas N' Garage."

"Aw, they were j-just bein' nice," he explained. "I ain't much of a mechanic. Everyone around here is real nice and they just want me to get some business, but I don't know much more'n changin' oil and puttin' on wiper blades an' . . . "

"And pretty much anything anyone who has a car can do."

"Yeah, that's about right," he agreed. "Say, listen, ma'am, I'll give 'er a fillerup and check the fluids, and I kinda tweedled the jingie in there, it oughta get you down to McCormick's. Down the road, 'bout a mile on the left."

The woman sighed and tucked a strand of brown hair into her scarf a little better.

"OK," she said. "I don't understand it, but then, I'm not from around here."

"Well, I'm sure Kenny can get your car fixed up real nice for ya. OK, ma'am, that'll be 26.86, an' I won't charge ya for the oil or anythin' 'cause of the inconvenience. Sorry 'bout that."

She waved goodbye and pulled out of the gas station. She could see the skinny, scruffy blond mechanic in the rear view mirror, waving back.

_That's funny_, she thought, frowning. _It was like he didn't want the business_. She shrugged. What did she know about small towns in the Rockies? Not a lot, and if she was in luck, not a lot more.

The last she saw in the mirror was the strange man flipping up a sign. It said "Closed."

Back at the gas station, the mechanic wiped his hands on his coveralls and spoke, very deliberately, into the lapel pin that read LEOPOLD. "D-Dougie?" he said. "Closin' up for the day. Be right down." He checked to make sure everything was locked down, and went into the interior, all maps, dust, and chewing gum. He locked the door. Locked the cash register. Hardly anything in it, anyway. And pushed open a door that read "Employees Only."

There was nothing there except for another door, a big steel one.

Butters Stotch stepped close to the door and opened his eyes wide. Two thin laser beams passed over his face, and the doors slid silently open. He stepped inside. The doors slid closed again, and the elevator began its long descent.

Down, down, down went the elevator, almost a mile deep into the granite substrata of the mountain. There was no real need to pull off his mechanic's uniform and wad it up, but he liked doing it anyway. It helped him mark the transition between _up there_ and _down here_.

The doors slid open. A red headed man in thick glasses and a white lab coat greeted him.

"Afternoon, Professor Chaos."

* * *

Chaos Labs was, quite simply, the best creator of electronic espionage equipment in the world. Only four people had ever seen it, but if anyone else _had_ seen it, they would have agreed that even the lab in James Bond movies wasn't anywhere near in the same class.

And Dougie—General Disarray, as Butters still called him affectionately—left Q in the shade. He was now frowning at a computer screen.

"What's the matter, General?"

Dougie's nasal whine had deepened a bit over the years, but it hadn't really gotten any more attractive. He always sounded as though he had a head cold.

"I don't like the specs on the new instruments, Professor."

"Let me see," Butters insisted, and Dougie slid over on his rolling chair to let him have a look. "Wu-why, it looks okay to me. What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is it's still too big. If we're making a disposable microphone small enough to put in someone's latte and powerful enough to pick up any conversation until it gets crapped out, it has to be really, really small. It has to be about the size of a big sugar sprinkle."

"Uh-huh," said Butters, frowning as well. "OK, we gotta get the titanium alloy down even thinner. An' I know what'll work."

"What?"

"Hamster spit," Butters said simply.

"Of course!" Dougie exclaimed. "Leave it to you to discover the secret properties of the common pet hamster." They high-fived and laughed evilly. Butters wiped his eyes.

"Hoo, boy, I still enjoy a good evil laugh once in a while." They leaned back in their chairs. "Anythin' else?"

"Nope, that was all we had to get done today. You want a donut?"

"What time is it?" Butters looked at the clocks on the wall—TOYKO, LENINGRAD, CAIRO, PARIS, LONDON, WASHINGTON, DENVER, LOS ANGELES—and gasped. "Holy sm-smoke, Dougie, I gotta get outta here or I'll be late for supper. Mom'll k-kill me." And that was when the red phone rang.

The red phone NEVER rang. Almost never, anyway.

"Gu-gosh darn it," Butters grumbled and picked up the phone. He didn't have to ask who it was. "Y-yeah, Eric, what do ya want?" His eyes popped. "You ARE?"

* * *

"Yeah, numbnuts, and I only get _one _phone call, so listen carefully. And write it down. Butters, I am in deep shit hynah. You have _got_ to help me out."

"Why?" Butters asked simply.

There was a deep sigh. It was, somehow, a fat sigh. Also an aggravated sigh.

"Because we're business partners. Because I know stuff about you that you don't want anyone to know. Because I have you by the short and curlies. Because I say so, goddamnit!" Butters heard a few deep breaths. "OK, ok. I've got a handle on it now. Listen. I'm being held."

Someone who didn't know Cartman would have asked, "why?" Butters asked, "What for?"

"Tax evasion. Graft. _Espionage_. Butters, if I'm lucky, I go up for about fifty years. If I'm unlucky, they'll bring back the firing squad just for me, just to make me feel all special. And I am not standing there with a blindfold alone. You are going to get me out of this."

"Oh, J-Jesus!" Butters said, nearly dropping the phone.

An angry voice was still quacking from the receiver. "Butters! Butters, you still there?"

"Yuh-yeah." Butters looked like the panicky kid he had once been who had hidden beneath the kitchen sink, convinced that he was seeing dead people.

"I don't have time to discuss this. We'll try to keep Chaos Labs from going public, but you have to somehow get some books that makes it look like a legitimate business."

"E-Eric, we been payin' the taxes, right?"

"Of course, dumbass. Who do you think I am, Al Capone?"

"Su-so we're clear on the taxes part. An' the graft?"

Another sigh. "Butters, let's not go there, ok? I think I can get that part straightened out."

"So. . . ." Butters said slowly, "that leaves espionage."

"Sure does."

"All—all right, Eric, me'n Dougie, we'll try an' think o' somethin', only I dunno what, 'cause of our policy, an'—"

"Gotta go, Butters. Call my lawyer in the morning. OW! You get those off of me, goddamnit, you assholes, you don't need to—" Click.

Butters held his head in his hands. "Aw, cracker crumbs."

* * *

Chaos Labs sold to everybody. Absolutely anybody, as long they had enough money. Need to catch a cheating spouse? Spy on your citizens? Bring down a government? Chaos Labs was proud to provide you with the finest in spooky technology, if you could afford it.

Long ago, when Dougie, Butters, and Cartman drew up the charter, they had all agreed on this. Cartman simply didn't want to be boxed in. Money was money. But for Butters, it was the principle of the thing.

Chaos Labs was there to create chaos. Period. You couldn't have rules about chaos, or it wasn't chaos at all.

So of _course_ they had sold technology that was probably being used to spy on the US Government. It wasn't anything _personal._

Officially, they made car alarms. Billions of dollars worth of "car alarms."

Cartman had become the youngest-ever U.S. Representative in the district to which Park County belonged.

Butters had simply bought the old gas station, tunneled a mile straight down, and built Chaos Labs. The gas station was a front. He owned it, Dougie worked there. And nothing else had changed. He still lived with his Mom, still kept hamsters, drove an old heap of a car, shopped at J-Mart, and gave most of the money to the Cartman and Stotch Fund for Abused and Neglected Children as an anonymous donor. He could afford to buy any comic book he wanted.

Almost everyone who had been important had gone places. South Park was a great place to be from, but hardly anyone stayed.

Butters Stotch had grown up to be a loser who ran a cruddy gas station and lived with his Mom, and a lot of people felt sorry for him. What a sad, boring little life.

If only they knew.

* * *

"Professor?" Dougie said, shaking Butters' shoulder. "Hey, Prof, what's going on?"

Butters lifted his head from his hands and sighed. "They g-got Eric. He's been arrested. He wants me to d-do somethin', but I dunno what."

"Wow," said Dougie. He took his thick glasses off and frowned. "Well, we've got to figure something out. Come on over to dinner and we'll talk about it there."

Butters shook his head. "Aw, no, D-Dougie, you know I can't d-do that. Mom'll be expectin' me an' she'll g-get awful sore."

Dougie laughed. "What's she going to do? Ground you?"

Butters smiled, but he still felt a bit uncomfortable. "Naw, 'course not, but. . . you know what she's like."

In fact, _everybody_ knew what Mrs. Stotch was like.

Dougie looked Butters in the eye. "Listen, Butters, you can't let your Mom run your life forever."

"It ain't that," Butters said defensively. "Su-she . . . she just gets awful lonely, is all."

Dougie tried another tack. "What's she making for dinner?"

"Meatloaf."

"Filmore's making chicken piccata with pumpkin tortellini for the pasta course and we're having lemon sorbet and biscotti for dessert."

"Aw. . . " Butters began to weaken.

"Come on, Butters. Call your Mom up right now before she begins to worry. Tell her an emergency came up at work. It's the truth," he pointed out. "You can have a decent dinner and a nice Pinot Grigio to wash it down with; you need to relax. And afterwards we can brainstorm a little with Filmore—the non-classified parts, of course," he added. "Filmore's smart about politics. He'll have some good ideas."

Dougie's logic was faultless, and Butters knew it made sense. It had nothing to do with spending a pleasant evening with his friends in their tastefully appointed house instead of at home looking at pale green walls eating meatloaf with his Mom in the kitchen. He picked up the _other _phone, the one that had a line running a mile straight up to Stotch's Gas N' Garage. No cell phone signal could be picked up down here. They had made sure of that.

"Uh, hu-hi, uh, Mom? I'm, uh, going to be a little late. Y-yeah. Wu-we, um, had a little emergency at work. Yeah. Yeah, I gotta help Dougie clean it up. No, of course it ain't Dougie's fault." Dougie rolled his eyes. "No—I won't be home for dinner. No, we'll be ok. No, Mom, please don't bring meatloaf out here. We'll be ok. Well—ok. If you gotta. Please don't wait up. Bu-bye, Mom. Be careful. Love you."

He hung up the phone.

"Let me guess," Dougie said, "your Mom's leaving you some meatloaf in the oven to warm up for later. "

"Yeah," Butters sighed, "but she's upset about somethin', I can tell. An' she really hates it when I gotta work late. 'Cause she thinks I'm lyin'."

"What does she think you're lying abou—oh, yeah," Dougie said, as Butters gave him a look that said _stop right there. _"Sorry."

They were silent as they slipped into their mechanic's uniforms, took the elevator to ground level, and drove off in Dougie's beat-up Ford pickup with the bumper sticker reading, "Honk if you love aliens."


	2. Unavoidably Detained

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter 2: Unavoidably Detained

It hurts to sit on your hands.

It hurts even more when you're big-boned, and still more when you're wearing plastic handcuffs, and when the seat you're sitting on is made of hard molded plastic.

They didn't have to _cuff_ him, goddamnit, he was going to come along quietly. What, did they think he was going to get into some kind of gunfight right there in the Congressional Office Building? He wasn't that stupid. No, they just wanted their exciting-looking perp walk to make the six o clock news.

"Congressman! Congressman! Over here!" _Flash flash flash_.

He wasn't _that_ stupid, either. He wasn't stupid enough to say anything. He just looked straight ahead with as much dignity as he could muster. Inside his head, it was a different story. _Oh, fuckity fuck fuck fuck. _

No, what really worried him was that he'd only had one phone call, and he'd used it up to call Butters. Was he insane? What was he thinking?

The police car slammed on the brakes and Cartman braced himself against the painful body hit that resulted from sliding across the slick plastic. Who knew that Mrs. Crabtree's driving would have prepared him for something useful?

Not so insane after all, he thought. He didn't need to call his lawyer. His lawyer knew to contact him. Butters was the only one who had the whole picture, and his lawyer didn't have Butter's phone number: this was exactly the kind of thing the red phone was for. Still, it was a shame that he couldn't call Wendy, too.

On the other hand, maybe not, Cartman thought. He had the feeling she was going to be really pissed off about her fiancé getting arrested on tax evasion, graft and espionage charges, and she wasn't going to assume he was innocent. She knew him pretty well.

She was going to be, well. . . miffed.

What it all came down to, he thought, was exactly how big an offence missing your own wedding on account of being in jail actually was. Was it the kind that involved a lot of screaming? Was it the not-answering-her-phone-for-four-days kind? Were we talking groveling, flowers, a trip to the Adriatic? Because he would do it, whatever it was.

Eric Cartman's strategy with Wendy Testaburger was pretty simple. It was his own Mehm's strategy with him: just give the lady what she wants. And the communication rules were simple, too, downright primitive, in fact. Bare knuckles, no holds barred, go for the big k.o. Figuratively speaking.

She told him right to his face that he was a fat greedy bastard with no ethics; he told her right to hers that she was an idealistic goddam hippie with no more idea of how the real world worked than a stuffed bunny rabbit. Almost every single vote he cast in the House pissed her off royally. They screamed and yelled and got in each other's face. Everyone thought it was nuts, but that was how they liked it.

The make-up sex was _fantastic_, too.

Still, this one might be different. This one was personal. He might annoy the hell out of her by keeping nothing but beer, Snacky Smores, and Cheesy Poofs in the kitchen of his place. As he pointed out on many occasions, she knew exactly what she was getting when she started dating him. They might mix it up on politics and values, but he had never actually _personally_ offended her. He might scream and call her a bitch a dozen times a day, but he did not forget birthdays or anniversaries, he did not sit somewhere with her and look over her shoulder for approaching blondes, and he had never, ever, _ever_ stood her up or kept her waiting. And this might be a pretty long wait.

The police car stopped in front of the Alexandria City Jail. The officers came around to haul him out. A man wearing a press pass jogged up to him.

"Congressman Cartman?"

Cartman gave the man the same expressionless look he'd used back at the Capitol. "No comment," he said.

"No," the journalist said quickly, "no, I wasn't asking for a comment, I'm here covering the Islamic extremist detainee story. I'm from NPR."

NPR! National Public Radio. Wendy worked for NPR. Of course.

"I've got a letter for you from a colleague of mine," he said, and held out an envelope addressed in Wendy's handwriting.

"I'm sorry, Congressman," said one of the officers, "I can't allow you to open this."

Cartman gave him an evil glance. "Right now I _can't_ open it," adding "dumbass" under his breath, and indicating the plastic cuffs.

"Oh, yes. Sorry."

"Look. This is from my fiancée. I'm not a violent criminal, I'm a Congressman, for God's sake. Just cut off the cuffs and let me read the letter."

"Actually, that's true," put in the man from NPR. "He is engaged to one of our correspondents, and that letter's from her."

"And it might," added Cartman pointedly, "be a demonstration of how _humane _you all are."

The officer sighed sadly and cut through Cartman's cuffs. He rubbed his wrists and took the envelope from the NPR guy. He ripped it open. What would it say? He knew what he hoped it would say—something like, _Darling Eric, it breaks my heart to see you in the hands of the police. I know in my heart that you must be innocent and I will wait for you eternally, Yours, Wendy. _

Nah. He knew she wasn't going to write anything like that. He unfolded the papers inside. There was no writing, no personal note, just an article.

"What the hell is this?" he said. His eye fell on a few paragraphs.

It may be very hard for you to deal with belonging to somebody else and having to substitute for a girl and satisfy a guy sexually, but at least you only have to do it with one guy or a small number, rather than anybody who can catch you. Your risk of infection with the AIDS virus is greatly reduced, often to zero. . . You don't have to fight at all and can avoid physical injury, and it is some comfort knowing that a dead punk is of no value to anybody. . . .

Hooking up means you have definitely become a punk and will be considered a punk for as long as you stay in the joint, so if you decide to hook up, you might as well get used to that status.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Cartman repeated. The NPR guy looked over his shoulder.

"Oh," he said, "I've seen that before. It's by the guy who founded Stop Prisoner Rape. It's about becoming a punk--how hooking up with a big scary guy can protect you a little bit." Cartman froze in horror. "But I wouldn't do it," he added, shaking his head. "It can be really dangerous. Besides, you won't have to worry about that," he assured Cartman. "This jail is full of Muslim extremists, New York Times reporters. . . it's a very safe place, really. You'll be ok."

Cartman frowned and looked at the article again. What the hell did this mean? Was she so mad at him that she was trying to pimp him out, for God's sake? Was she trying to protect him? Was she furious? Was she scared? Were they still engaged? He couldn't tell.

He sighed as they led him into the jail. Whatever it was, he thought, she was not taking this well at all.


	3. Plans, Dreams, and Memories

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone. See endnotes for specific references.

Chapter Three: Plans, Dreams, and Memories

"Cartman's just being melodramatic," Filmore called from the kitchen, where he was getting dessert. "No one's been executed for espionage since---hmm, where did I put the limoncello?"

Dougie smiled at Butters and shook his head, but simply went on sipping his espresso. Filmore was brilliant, but he was easily distracted when it came to food. He was a dedicated food freak who not only had subscriptions to _Bon Appetit _and _Gourmet_ but who also actually used the recipes. He had been trying to convince Dougie for years that they ought to take a food tour of Tuscany, telling him that he was positive that Italy had as many aliens as Colorado. If not more.

Filmore was an exception to the rule that the most successful kids left South Park when they grew up. He had consistently had the highest or second-highest GPA all the way through school, and had been class valedictorian when Ike Broflovski got a case of senioritis and went through a heavy biker phase. Everyone was surprised when Filmore decided to go to college in Colorado and commuted home every weekend. He did the same thing through law school, when even the most unobservant finally noticed that Filmore was always in the company of the goofy-looking gas station attendant. As soon as he passed his bar exams, he came back and set up house with Dougie.

After losing the class presidency race to Ike, Filmore had never lost another political contest, and he hadn't had to bring in his aunt Rosie, either. He'd run for mayor straight out of law school and been mayor ever since, and everyone admitted that he was terrific. He could have run for Cartman's Congressional seat and won it without even breaking a sweat, but he always smiled and said he'd rather stay in South Park, thanks.

Everyone understood that he stayed in South Park because of Dougie, but they couldn't understand what the dark and handsome young mayor saw in him. It wasn't his looks, that was for sure; Dougie had red, bushy hair and still wore glasses that were Coke-bottle thick. It couldn't be personality, because when you started a conversation with Dougie, it always ended in the details of an original Star Trek episode or his plans to watch for aliens again that weekend. Dougie was the second-biggest loser in South Park, and he worked for the biggest loser in South Park, so what was the attraction?

Butters knew what it was. Dougie and Filmore had been great friends since Filmore started a chess club in high school; Filmore was always starting things. Dougie was the only one to show up and he had proceeded to kick Filmore's ass. Filmore had started hanging around more and more and it had come as a surprise to Butters that his little pal General Disarray was actually old enough to have a boyfriend. They were both exceptionally intelligent in complementary ways. Filmore loved to cook, and Dougie would eat anything, no matter how weird. Dougie supported Filmore when the people of South Park drove him nuts; Filmore knew perfectly well that Dougie was a part-owner of Chaos Labs and never asked any questions he knew he shouldn't ask.

Butters loved being at their house, which was decorated in a tasteful mixture of Tuscan Farmhouse and Mid-Century Sci-Fi, and they loved having him over. He'd been the best man at their wedding, and Dougie had jokingly threatened to return the favor until several years ago, when it stopped being funny anymore.

"Ah-HA," came Filmore's voice from the kitchen, "found it." He trotted back into the dining room with a tray of biscotti and sorbet and a green bottle under his arm. "Here it is," he said, "limoncello. Put it up myself this summer. Try a sploosh of it on your sorbet, Butters, you wouldn't believe how it kicks it up. As I was saying," continued Filmore, sitting down with Dougie and Butters at the large wooden table, "Cartman's just overreacting, as usual. No one's been executed for espionage since the Rosenbergs, and that was over fifty years ago. And they _certainly _didn't use a firing squad. They were electrocuted. No," he said, "federal prison is a _lot _more likely."

"But it _is _p-possible?" said Butters nervously.

"Theoretically," admitted Filmore, licking his sorbet spoon, "but I doubt it. The law says that in order for it to be espionage, you have to have _meant_ for it to be used against the government by a known enemy. So you make and sell wiretaps with the most inoffensive little signals in the business—it's technically legal, unless you intentionally sold them to Al-Qaeda and delivered them by singing gorilla with full instructions on how to attach them to Dick Cheney's cellphone and what to listen for, and I _hope_," he added fervently, "that you didn't."

"D-Did we?" Butters asked Dougie.

Dougie shrugged. "I dunno, Prof. That's Cartman's end of things, distribution."

Filmore arched an attractive eyebrow. "Ah, that _would_ be the problem, wouldn't it?"

"Kinda," said Butters. "See, Eric only h-had about five minutes. He didn't tell me what he was supposed to have done, exactly."

"Hmmmm," said Filmore. "Well, let's try looking at it this way—_why_ has he been arrested?—Bear with me," he added, as Butters began again to say he didn't know. "Tax fraud, we know he's clean, or at least that the business is clean."

"We do?" said Dougie. Filmore smiled.

"Of course we do," he said, "because _you_ are not going to jail for tax evasion if I can help it. Kyle Broflovski is the best tax attorney in the business and he's vetted everything. The business may make a lot of money, and the _types_ of products may be a _bit_ misleadingly named. I doubt that your #2 Deluxe Bozo the Clown Car Alarm is precisely what it sounds like, considering that it costs $200,000, and no, I _don't_ want to know what it does."

Dougie and Butters exchanged looks. The Bozo the Clown was a combination GPS device and bug that could be made into a charming variety of bobblehead dolls for the dash. The Deluxe was a counterspy device that exactly mimicked the doll your enemy had given you, only it was wirelessly tuned to _his_ car. A lot of ambassadorial cars had bobbleheads on the dashboard these days.

"But the books _themselves_, " Filmore continued, "are impeccable. You can open them to the IRS or any other government agency any time they want. And I think the FBI will step in here, too. They don't want an investigation into how many bobbleheads they bought last year. So there must be a _reason_ they've decided to go after Cartman and Chaos Labs, and I'm guessing it's a download of some super-classified material off a federal computer, plus _some_ sort of indication that _somebody_ has _some_ kind of information they aren't supposed to have. Would that be possible?"

"Yu-yeah," said Butters. "We d-don't set limits on what we make or what we sell or who we sell it ta. You know our ch-charter, Dougie."

They said it together.

"Organized chaos isn't chaos at all."

"Su-so ya see, Filmore," said Butters, "he really _coulda_ sold some stuff to Al-Qaeda or somethin'."

"Hmmm, maybe," frowned Filmore. "But it's just as likely that someone _knows_ about Chaos Labs and got hold of some of your equipment without permission. That person might have given it to a foreign government or to terrorists, or they might simply have sold the device so someone could make cheap knockoffs. That's economic espionage, and it's almost as bad: the FBI wouldn't like having their favorite toys copied by everybody and neither would you. And then that same person probably conveniently allowed the actual item to be traced back to Cartman—which will lead straight to you and Dougie if you're not careful."

"Bu-but—who would d-do that? An' why?"

"Well," said Filmore, beginning to pick up the dessert things as Dougie stood up to help him, "that's the problem, isn't it? Somebody will have to find out, and I think it means going to Washington. You'll want to talk to Cartman first—get as much of the story as possible—and then start looking around. I'd do it as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you can." They carried the dishes into the kitchen.

"But—but. . . .I can't leave n-now!" exclaimed Butters.

"Why not?" called Dougie from the kitchen. "I can hold things down. We've got to try the jingety in the thingmabob anyway. That'll keep me busy, and I'll need to look busy and pump some actual gas, but there's no reason I can't manage." Dougie and Filmore popped back to the table again.

"It ain't that," said Butters, "it's—it's Mom."

Dougie and Filmore looked at each other, but didn't say anything.

"She'll worry," explained Butters unnecessarily. "An'-an' d-don't start with me, Dougie, it ain't her f-fault."

Dougie sat back down at the table. "I wasn't going to," he said mildly.

"Hmmmm," said Filmore, pacing in front of the fireplace, neatly avoiding by habit Dougie's large model of the _Enterprise. _"Let's look at it from another angle."

"That's what he does," Dougie said to Butters.

"Let's look at it from your _Mom's _point of view. We can't avoid her worrying altogether, but we do want to avoid her worrying _too _much, Dougie: Butters is right. If she worries too much, she'll start to ask a lot of questions, and you don't want that. So what we need is something that will occupy her, keep her interested in something else, and fortunately," Filmore stopped pacing and looked up at them cheerfully, "I have just the thing." He walked over to his desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

"Oh, it's this again," sighed Dougie.

"Yes, Dougie, it's 'this again.' It's the Arts Council I've been trying to get started," explained Filmore. "People aren't moving to South Park; they're leaving. And why?" he asked rhetorically.

"Beats me," said Dougie. "Even the aliens aren't showing up as often as they used to."

"It's because we don't have a _vital downtown area_," said Filmore, going into mayor mode, and rolling out a map. "We have that blighted spot, including the old Studcat Theatre, which has been abandoned for years, ever since people started getting their porn on DVDs and the internet. We need to restore the Studcat and make it into a real arthouse movie theatre; and what I really want to see down there," said Filmore, drawing a breath, "is a _museum_. A real art museum. We've got the money to build one and buy some nice art, too, but no one to run it. Right now I'm trying to put together an Arts Council. We'll start small: art classes for children and adults, some community theatre, and eventually we'll work our way up to state and federal grant money and a whole arts center."

He looked up at Butters. "So tomorrow I'll call your Mom, and I'll ask her to be on the Council. Everybody is going to be going to weekly meetings, there'll be subcommittees, I'm asking people to volunteer for at least one arts activity, like a class or a theatre production, and to get as many people involved as possible. With any luck," he said, rolling up the map, "your Mom will be busy, she'll make some friends, she might even find out she likes art. She might even be happy."

This sounded too good to be true to Butters, but there wasn't any real alternative.

"Th-thank you, Filmore," he said.

"Not at all," said Filmore briskly. "I really do need people for the Arts Council. Now, you can make reservations for your plane and hotel tonight. Promise us you won't stay in some piece of crap fleabag near the airport."

"Yeah, Prof," said Dougie, "you don't _have _to do that. You've got enough to worry about. Stay somewhere nice for a change."

"Ideally," said Filmore, with a glint in his eye, "near the Smithsonian."

"Aw, for crying out loud, Fill," said Dougie, "enough with the arts district already. I know what you're up to. You just want to set up a Northern Italian restaurant there."

"That's not a good idea? I thought you'd be happy to have a place we could go to where I wouldn't always be in the kitchen."

"But," said Dougie exasperatedly, "it would be _your restaurant._ I know you: you _would _always be in the kitchen messing around and I'd see even less of you! Honest to God, Filmore. . . ."

Butters knew his cue.

"Have a safe trip, Butters," said Filmore, waving. "Call us when you get in!"

"---covered in elephant garlic all the time when it isn't pesto, I don't know how I stand it. . . ."

Butters let himself out.

* * *

It wasn't a long walk from Dougie and Filmore's place to his house, and he preferred walking anyway. He reached the end of the driveway—the lights were on downstairs.

"Oh, hamburgers," he said to himself.

His Mom _had _waited up for him. Well, that's what he'd expected anyhow. He let himself in. Mrs. Stotch was sitting on the sofa in her bathrobe, reading a novel.

"Hu-hey, Mom," he said, kissing her on the cheek, "thought you weren't gu-gonna wait up."

"Oh, I wasn't sleepy anyway, sweetie," she said, standing up and stretching. "There's meatloaf in the oven." She began walking towards the kitchen. Butters followed her.

"I'm su-sorry, Mom," he said, "I couldn't eat a bite, honest. We had plenty to eat. We can use it for sandwiches tomorrow," he added, seeing her disappointed expression.

"That's all right, Butters," she said, "I just wanted to make sure you had dinner. I'm going to make some cocoa—would you like some?"

"Su-sure," said Butters, and sat down. No hardship, and he had to tell her about going away anyway; it would be much easier this way.

"Oh, by the way," Mrs. Stotch said casually, as she began to heat some milk at the stove, "you got another postcard from your father today."

Butters groaned internally. _So that was it_, he thought. He reached for the postcard, which had a picture of waves and surfers on it—probably Hawaii. He flipped it over, although he didn't need to read the message on the back. It was always the same.

_---Having wonderful time._

It never added:

----_wish you were here._

Probably because Mr. Stotch _didn't _wish they were there. And it was always "_you_ got a postcard from _your_ father," even though the postcards were always addressed to both of them.

Butters didn't blame his Dad. After that nightmarish time when he was eight, when his Dad had been caught and his Mom tried to kill him, they'd all pretended the whole thing had never happened. His Dad had turned in an Academy Award quality performance as a heterosexual man: coaching Little League, betting his Mom that he, Butters, wouldn't "turn out gay"—_as though that would have been a bad thing_, thought Butters, _it didn't seem to hurt Dougie or Filmore any_---even trying to be not _quite_ as metrosexual as everybody else, just in case. If the trips to the bathhouse and the Studcat had continued, he'd been awfully discreet about it.

Then on Butters' eighteenth birthday, he'd come downstairs to find a large white envelope on the kitchen table containing a card and a thousand dollars in cash. All it said was:

_Happy birthday_._ Sorry, son._

After that, there were only the postcards and a few phone calls at Stotch's Gas N' Garage. At one point, his Dad had tried to explain that he wasn't _really_ bisexual: he was both a straight man named Chris and a gay man named Stephen. But not bi. Butters wondered why it was somehow better to be schizophrenic than bisexual, but he didn't say that. His father had also tried to explain that he had been so afraid that his mother would freak out and try to kill him again that he had done his best for as long as he possibly could. And Butters thought he probably had. You couldn't really blame a person for something like that.

His mom hadn't tried to kill Butters, or herself, or anybody else. She'd just locked herself in her room and cried for a long time, and then come out and tried to act as normally as possible. But now she clung tighter to Butters. She needed to know where he was, to make sure he was safe and protected, to fill him with meatloaf. She didn't date, she had no friends, she didn't even have pets. Butters had tried to get her interested in hamsters, but pit bulls would have been fine, if his Mom would only snap out of it.

But she didn't.

Early on, Dougie used to tell Butters to tell his Mom to back off, to run off to Vegas and really go nuts, to do _something_. But Butters loved his Mom; besides, how could he do that, hurt her even more when she'd been hurt so much already? He just hoped that somehow, someday, she was going to cheer up.

So the postcard was really lousy timing. Nevertheless, he had to do this.

"Uh, Mu-Mom?" he said, as she slipped him a mug of cocoa. "I—I gotta go outta town for a while."

Mrs. Stotch looked up at him and waited for him to go on. _Gosh darn it_, thought Butters, _why does the truth sound so much like it's a lie? _

"Oh?" she said.

"Um, yeah," he continued. "I g-gotta go to Washington. It's, um, somethin' ta do with, y'know, regulations and stuff. An' we wanna b-branch out into p-propane an' propane-related supplies. So," he said, letting out a breath, "I g-gotta go ta Washington. Tomorrow."

Mrs. Stotch looked alarmed. "That soon? Is anything wrong?"

"No, not exactly," said Butters, "but, uh, there's, ummmmm—su-somethin' I gotta do." There was a pause.

"OK, sweetie," she said brightly.

Butters dropped his head in his hands. This was worse than if she'd acted upset.

"Mom," he said, "I really do g-gotta go. It r-really is about work. Honest."

"Of course it is," she agreed.

"Mom," Butters said desperately, "I'm n-not hidin' anythin', I g-gotta go for work an' that's all."

"You're sure you're not hiding anything?" she said softly.

"Uh. . . . "

Butters hated lies. He really, really hated them, which made it ironic that he seemed to live in a web of them nearly all the time. He decided to be as clean as he could.

"OK, M-Mom. I ain't t-tellin' you the whole truth. 'C-Cause I can't. I can't an' that's all. B-But it really is about work, an' t-tonight really was work, honest."

_She probably thinks I'm sneakin' around with Dougie_, he thought. _I wish she'd just ask me an' I could say, no, Mom, I was at their house, Filmore cooks real good, an' then we could both go_.

If only, he thought, his Dad had come out as a teenager, like Filmore and Dougie, and hadn't tried to do what he thought he was supposed to and married a woman. But if he had, there would have been no Butters. It was the kind of question that made his head hurt, which is probably why he'd failed that Introduction to Philosophy course at Park County Community College. And Dad wasn't kidding when he said he loved Butters' Mom: somehow he did. Society might have pressured him into marrying her, but Society can't pressure a person into turning on the radio and dancing with someone at home, all alone, with your kid sitting there in footie pajamas looking up at you, night after night. He could still see them, sliding around the living room, doing foxtrots and waltzes—he'd come by his own dancing talent honestly—could still remember what it felt like to sit there on the floor with his finger in his mouth and think, _when I grow up, it's gonna be just like that_.

He decided to talk about the real issue for a change.

"Mom," he said, "I'm su-sure Dad loved you as m-much as he could."

Mrs. Stotch said nothing, but one tear streaked down her face. _Gosh darn it_.

"An'-an'—M-Mom? Listen? _I _love you, ok?" He got up from the table and hugged her.

"Oh, Butters, " she sighed, "I wish you had someone besides just me. You'd tell me if you were gay, wouldn't you, honey? You wouldn't sneak around and get yourself hurt?"

He sighed. They'd been through this a hundred times. "Mom," he said, "yeah, I would, honest Injun. I ain't t-told you nothin' 'cause there ain't n-nothin' to tell."

_Boy_, he thought, as she held him tightly, _no wonder she didn't believe that_.

* * *

Author's notes:

The Rosenbergs were executed for espionage in 1953. Ethel Rosenberg, in any case, was almost certainly innocent.

The meatloaf is from Jean Shepherd's _A Christmas Story._

The abandonment and postcards were partly inspired by Tennessee Williams' _The Glass Menagerie. _In fact, there are a lot of Williams echoes in this chapter.

_King of the Hill _fans will recognize the propane and propane-related supplies.


	4. Professor Chaos Goes To Washington

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter Four: Professor Chaos Goes to Washington

As Butters flew into Dulles Airport the next morning, he knew he had a lot to think about—Chaos Labs, Eric, his Mom—but what was uppermost in his mind was the need to pee. Next time he would definitely remember that it was a good idea to get to the restroom 45 minutes before the flight was supposed to arrive in Washington, no matter how much turbulence there was. That National Airspace security was a killer.

There hadn't been much time to search for a flight or to pack. He had spent about an hour looking around on the Internet in some confusion—where were all these hotels again?—and finally caved and called Dougie, who woke up Filmore, who asked him for his credit card info and had the whole thing set up in about fifteen minutes. They'd gotten up early and picked him up to drive him to the airport.

"Bye, Mom," he said, giving her a hug. "Du-don't worry. Everything'll be ok an'-an' I'll call ya the minute I get there."

"I'm not worried, baby," she said. "And don't you worry about me, either. I've got plenty to keep me busy."

Well, if she didn't now, she would soon, he thought.

"Hi, Mrs. Stotch!" said Filmore, as Dougie grabbed Butters' suitcase. "Mm! Do you use _cloves_ in your muffins?" he added, trying one out.

Mrs. Stotch smiled. "Why, yes, actually, I do." She liked Filmore, but then, thought Butters, who didn't? As Dougie hustled him towards the pickup, he could hear little pieces of Filmore's pep talk about the Arts Council and how she was just the person they needed to round out the team. Dougie honked the horn.

"Bye, Mrs. Stotch!" called Filmore, waving and palming another muffin. "We'll get Butters to the airport in one piece!"

"After that it's out of our hands," said Dougie under his breath.

"Call you later on!" said Filmore, and swung himself into the truck. He sank his teeth into the second muffin. "Wow, she really _does_ use cloves. Who would have thought?"

* * *

The trouble with leaving everything to Filmore became evident as soon as he got to the airport. To his embarrassment, he'd been hustled into a premier lounge and then put in first class, where he felt really conspicuous in his J-Mart clothes, and been offered omelets and champagne. Who drank champagne, especially first thing in the morning? He declined the champagne but admitted that the omelet made a nice change from cornflakes. Then, when they landed, all he wanted to do was to find a men's room, but instead he was met by a driver, carrying a sign reading

STOTCH

He couldn't bring himself to tell a man wearing such a fancy uniform that he really had to pee, so he just went along quietly to the large black limousine, even though limousines reminded him of Paris Hilton and even though he thought that here, again, Filmore had gone much too far.

He decided to get something over with as quickly as possible.

"Uh, sir? Uh-could we, um, y'know, make a quick stop before you take me to the hotel?"

"Sure," said the driver. "Where to?"

"Um," said Butters, checking his notes, "Alexandria City Jail."

There was a pause. "OK," said the driver, and they were headed for Virginia.

It seemed like a nice enough building, thought Butters. Not such a terrible place, if you had to be in jail, that was. The driver dropped him off in front of the building and promised to come back in an hour.

He ran up the flight of steps. Oh, hamburgers, he shoulda called somebody and told them he was coming. He almost collided with a stocky brown-haired man in a well-cut suit, who put out a hand and stopped him.

"Butters?" Butters stared at the man. He looked familiar.

"_Clyde_?"

"Oh, good," breathed Clyde, "it _is_ you. I've been trying to get hold of you. Eric keeps saying that you can get him out of this mess, but when I ask him for details, he just clams up, which is _not_," Clyde added, half escorting and half pulling Butters into the building, "the kind of behavior you want to see in a client."

"You're Eric's lawyer?" said Butters.

"He didn't tell you that?" said Clyde, frowning.

"I thought Kyle Broflovski was our lawyer."

Clyde sighed. "Kyle," he said, in a tone that suggested he'd had to say this many times before, "is a _tax attorney_. Admittedly, he is a damned good tax attorney, but he does _not _do criminal defense. That's my job." They went through a screening process involving a pat down and a metal detector that Clyde had clearly done many times before.

"I d-didn't know you were a defense lawyer, Clyde," said Butters, trotting behind him.

"Oh, yes," said Clyde. "Always wanted to do it. Ever since the time they announced over the school PA system that I was the one who'd crapped in the urinal and I sat there in Mr. Mackey's office for about an hour before my parents came in and told them I _couldn't_ have: well, it occurred to me that people get arrested for things they couldn't possibly have done all the time. So that's what I do now."

"Um, Clyde," said Butters, "speakin' of urinals. . . "

"Huh? Oh, it's over there."

After taking care of that, Butters allowed Clyde to lead him to the interview room, where people in the jail could speak with their attorneys and other visitors. They waited while a guard went off to fetch Cartman.

Butters looked around at the bare walls, at the linoleum floors, at the plexiglass wall separating prisoners from their visitors. "Ain't there any ch-chance of gettin' Eric out on b-bail?" he asked.

Clyde shook his head. "Nope," he said. "The judge is convinced that he's a fugitive risk. I don't have to tell you how he ran during the whole Casa Bonita thing, let alone tried to break out of juvvie. He's gotta stay here and that's the best we can do. Pity, because it makes putting a defense together much more difficult."

The door on the opposite side of the plexiglass opened, and Cartman came in with two guards. They sat him down at a chair.

Cartman didn't seem to be in a very good mood.

"Well, _finally_," he said, glancing at Butters. "Took you long enough. Clyde," he said, "I thought I told you to make them get rid of these fucking _cuffs_." He waved his hands up, showing that they were indeed cuffed together, with metal cuffs now.

Clyde frowned. "They don't have you cuffed when you're in your cell, do they?"

"No," admitted Cartman, "but for Christ's sake, I don't need them at _all_." Butters noticed that he didn't say anything about the fact that they probably hurt his fat wrists, too.

Clyde spoke to the guard, who nodded and uncuffed Cartman. "They'll uncuff you for now," Clyde said, "and I'll speak to the judge about it."

"OK, Clyde," Cartman said, "this is between Butters and me."

Clyde looked irritated. "Eric, I'm your _attorney_, don't you think you'd better tell me—"

"No," Cartman snapped. "All you need to know is to let Butters have access to my apartment and my office, even my papers."

"Papers!" Butters exclaimed. "Holy sm-smoke, I knew I forgot somethin'!" He pulled out a fat sheaf of papers. "I'm sorry, Clyde. I got some photocopies of our books and our tax returns. They're perfectly clean and they're legal, too. You think this'll help?"

Clyde was flipping through them, looking pleased. "It certainly will," he said. "Let me check them over, but I may be able to get the tax evasion charges dropped right away—maybe as soon as tomorrow." He carried the papers over to a chair in the corner and began reading them more carefully, leaving Butters and Cartman alone.

This was definitely awkward.

"Uh, Eric," began Butters, "you're lu-lookin' well. How's the f-food in here?"

"Oh, it's _fabulous_," said Cartman sarcastically. "It's like a fucking resort in here. What do you think, asshole?" he snapped. "I was supposed to get married in a month. How do you think I feel? Here's what I need you to do," he continued. "I need you to go through my apartment and my office and check through all the Chaos Labs stuff. See if anything's missing or it's been tampered with. Luckily I didn't have any of it on me personally when they arrested me or I'd have had to surrender it. That's the easy part."

_If that was the easy part, _thought Butters, _he hated to hear what the hard part was_.

"Su-so," said Butters, "ya think they gu-got the thingiebobber or the tweedlywhatsit?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Butters?" snarled Cartman.

"Sorry," said Butters, and blushed. "Me'n Dougie, we t-talk that way when we're not _at work_; that way if s-someone's listenin', it don't matter. "

"Well, I don't know what those things are," Cartman pointed out, "so—OH," he said suddenly, "the _tweedlywhatsit_. Is that the one where—" and he made a series of peculiar gestures in the air.

"Yep."

"Hmmmm," said Cartman, "hadn't thought about that one. Problem is, I don't think anything's missing now. It couldn't have been gone for long, whatever it was, or I would have noticed. And whoever got it had to have had access to my office and my desk, maybe even my apartment. Which could be a lot of people: my staff, constituents, pizza delivery guys. Still, they'd have to have known what they were looking for and be able to get to where it was, and all the Chaos Labs stuff is locked up, and they'd also have to put it back. That might narrow it down a bit. So," he finished, "you've got to find out what went missing and why, who took it, what they did with it, and prove it before we're all wearing these attractive orange jumpsuits. Like I said, that's the easy part."

"What's the hard p-part?" said Butters, dreading this.

"You've got to talk to Wendy for me," said Cartman.

"Aw, g-geez," said Butters. "Couldn'tcha do that yourself?"

"How, asshole?" Cartman glared. "I can't call her. And she hasn't been here."

Butters looked down at his feet. "Whaddaya want me ta t-tell her, Eric?"

Cartman leaned in. "_Everything_."

"Y-you mean . . ."

"I mean everything. _Almost _everything. About Chaos Labs, the whole thing. She was gonna know it anyway," Cartman said, "as soon as we got married—which we're still going to do. I hope," he added.

"I just got one question, Eric—it's kinda p-personal."

"You can _ask_."

"Why ain't you and Wendy married already?"

Cartman looked aggravated. "What do you think I've been trying to do for the past 12 years?" he said impatiently. "First we were building Chaos Labs and school slowed me down a little. And it took a little while to make that first ten million dollars."

"Did ya have to wait to make ten million d-dollars first?" asked Butters.

Cartman gave him a look that said _You idiot. _"Then she was all busy at NPR—and I was stuck back in South Park—until I ran for Congress. Which worked great," he said, a bit more cheerfully, "and it was good for business, too. Plus I got to see a lot more of her once I moved to Washington. And _then_ I had to destroy the fucking competition, and there was a lot of that. And _then_, it took a lot of time to convince her to marry me."

"Why?"

"She said she wasn't sure she wanted to be stuck with me." Seeing Butters' look of shock, he added proudly, "She's _very _honest. So once I got over _that_ hurdle and bought her a rock the size of the fucking Capitol Dome, I figured I was home free."

"And you weren't?"

"No," said Cartman grimly, "because then we had to plan a fucking _wedding. _Do you have any idea how fucking _long_ that takes, even with pros doing it? When you've got to invite all the journalists, and a whole pile of political people I owe, and another pile who owe me, and then a bunch of people on the other side because it's got to be a fuckin' _bipartisan wedding_—and the corporate guys and the lobbyists I'm in bed with—not literally," he added, as Butters gasped, "most of them are even fatter than me and not nearly as pretty--well, it took a while," he said, "and I'm sure there are still people we forgot."

"Wu-When was the wedding su-supposed to be?" asked Butters.

"Four weeks from Saturday. You knew that."

"Actually, no, I d-didn't," said Butters, "b-because you never sent me an invitation."

"Well, there isn't much point now, is there?" said Cartman gloomily. "Look, just go tell her the truth. At least she'll be entertained by the novelty."

* * *

Between searching Cartman's office for Chaos Labs devices, then doing the same at his apartment, it was very late afternoon when Butters checked into his hotel. Clyde had come along and let him in everywhere, and came up with him to his room, which Filmore must have insisted on booking on the executive level.

"Wow," said Clyde, taking in the two showers, the Jacuzzi, the high thread-count sheets, the view of the Jefferson Memorial, and the huge fruit basket with a card reading _Enjoy yourself, Prof_, "I had no idea running a gas station brought in this kind of money."

"It usually doesn't," said Butters truthfully.

"Here's Wendy's address and her phone numbers," said Clyde, "and here are my numbers. If you figure anything out, please call me right away. Damn," added Clyde, "you need a supermodel to go with this room. Hubba-hubba."

It didn't take Butters long to unpack. He figured that it would be a good idea to freshen up a bit before trying to talk to Wendy, so he climbed into the Jacuzzi. Filmore _did_ have a point, he thought; it definitely got rid of some of the tension and he really needed that, though he still didn't know why a person would need a flat-panel TV in the bathroom. Then he slipped on some fresh clothes and his good sweater and called Wendy.

"Huh-hey, W-Wendy? Uh, it's Butters Stotch. Uh. . . . I'm in town an' I was wonderin' if you'd like some d-dinner, if you're free. . . yeah, I guess this is a bad time, but uh—this is sorta about that, an'-an- I was hopin' I could help. Could I please talk to ya for maybe fifteen minutes, anyway? ------Oh, g-good. Look, I'll be right over, just hang tight, ok?"

This time he could catch a regular taxi, which while he still wasn't used to it, made him feel a lot less conspicuous.

Wendy lived in a nice apartment building in Georgetown and buzzed him right in.

"Hu-hey, W-" he began, but she cut him off.

"That asshole sent you, didn't he?" she said coldly.

There didn't seem to be any point in asking "which asshole?"

"Well, you can go straight back there," she said, "and tell him that he has fucked me over for the last time." She took off an immense diamond ring and hurled it at Butters, who dodged it just in time. That thing could take an eye out.

"Do you have any idea," she yelled, "how humiliating this is? It's not enough to have to cancel everything and box up all the gifts and send them back, I've got to see it on the front page practically every day? Goddam fat criminal bastard asshole."

_OK, _thought Butters, _pretend you're Filmore; he knows how to handle people. What would he say? Look at it from her angle. She's mad, all right, but she hasn't thrown you out yet. That's good. _

"He is _so lucky_ that he is locked up right now," she hissed, "because if I could get at him, I would—I'd _flense_ him or something."

"Th-there's hardly any market for whale meat anymore, Wendy," he pointed out.

She sat down on the sofa and giggled. "That's true," she admitted. It looked as though she was done screaming for a while. _Whew_, thought Butters, _what a relief, now I can talk to—_

But he couldn't, because now she was crying, which was much worse, and they weren't cute little tears: they were big yowly snotty horking sobs, and she was pounding the sofa, and there was no way she was going to hear him over all that anyway. So he sat down next to her, thought about patting her on the back, decided against it, and waited it out.

Eventually, she had to slow down, which she did.

"Sorry, Butters," she said, and got up to get a towel and some ice from the kitchen. "I don't usually carry on like that. It just kind of hit me."

"Must be a shock," Butters agreed.

Wendy snorted. "Putting it mildly, yes," she said. "I thought there wasn't anything he could do that would shock or surprise me anymore, but this was definitely a surprise."

"Um, Wendy," Butters began, "you—you were kinda right about somethin'—Eric _did _ask me to talk to you."

Evidently Wendy wasn't quite done being angry.

"You see?" she said. "It's this kind of thing that pisses me off. He's got to send somebody, and when he can't find anybody, when he's totally desperate and has to find somebody who will do anything, then he goes to you, because he knows you're a complete pushover and you'll do it."

"Hu-hey!" Butters objected.

"I'm sorry, Butters," she said firmly, "but we both know it's true. What did he think you were going to say, anyway? 'Wendy, Eric didn't mean it?' Of _course_ he didn't mean to get arrested, that's obvious. 'Wendy, Eric really loves you?' Because of course that one's true, too. Oh, shit, " she finished, sitting down hard on a big stuffed chair. She was finished crying—she didn't seem like the kind of girl who cried a lot, anyway—but her face sort of shook.

"Wu-well," Butters said, "he didn't tell me to say either of those things."

She looked up. "No?"

"No," he said. "He wanted me to tell you somethin' else."

She laughed. "You're telling me he's _innocent_? Butters, Eric has never been innocent of _anything_. Nice try, but no."

"Wu-well," Butters said, "all I c'n tell ya is what I know, an' what I'm tryin' ta figure out. An' he didn't ask me 'cause I'm a pushover," he said with as much dignity as he could manage. "He asked me 'cause I'm the only one who knows."

"Knows what?" said Wendy, curiosity in her voice.

So he told her. He told her about the charter, about Chaos Labs, about the "car alarms," about how much money the business brought in—her eyes bulged slightly at that one--leaving out anything about Dougie or the gas station or anything that they considered classified, which was a lot. Still, it ought to be enough to convince anybody.

"That," she said finally, "is a bald and unconvincing narrative. Secret espionage equipment? Framed by a person or persons unknown? I'm sorry, Butters, a _child_ wouldn't believe that story."

"Look," Butters said desperately, "I can prove it to ya. Just gimme a minute."

He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

"_If ya leave me now,_

_Ya take away th' biggest part o' me, _

_OooooWOOOWOoooo_

_Baby, please don't goooo. . . _

"Oh, geez, Butters, _stop_," cried Wendy. "What's that supposed to do—melt my heart? Because it's not working."

"Nope," said Butters. "Shh." He listened carefully, but there was nothing.

"I'm checkin' to make sure your neighbors ain't home," he explained. "Ya do that an' they come screamin' on out inta the hallway yellin' 'shut up,' but they d-didn't, so they ain't home. Now watch—an' keep your voice down."

He whipped a device no larger than a small cellphone out of his pocket and pressed a tiny red button. An LED display lit up with a phone number on it. He showed it to Wendy.

"Know whose number that is?" he asked her.

"No," she said, "no idea."

"I never seen it before either," said Butters, "but I know who I'm callin'." He punched the button again. "Hello? Is Token Black there? Who'm speakin' ta? Gosh, wow." He mouthed over at Wendy, "Wynton Marsalis." "Uh, yeah, Mr. Marsalis, I was wonderin' if I could speak ta Token. Tell him Butters Stotch." He waited a moment. "Loo loo loo, I got some—Oh, howdy, Token!" He hit another button on the little console.

"Hey, Butters," said the voice of Token, very quiet but definitely audible. "Long time, man."

"Boy, yeah. You r-recordin' with Wynton Marsalis now?"

"Yes. How did you get his cell number?"

"Long story," said Butters. "Listen, Token, couldja please do me a favor? I w-wouldn't ask ya, but this is real important."

"OK. We're on break right now anyway."

"Good. Have you got a laptop handy?

"Mine? Or anyone's?"

"A-Anyone's will do just fine. Just log in to your email account, couldja—and c-couldja email Wendy Testaburger?"

"Wendy? GOD, I don't know. I don't know what it is these days—haven't seen her in years."

"Two years, one month, eight days," said Butters quietly.

"Huh?" said Token.

"N-Nothin'. Just try . Got it? OK." He pressed the speaker button again and Token's voice blipped out. "Nope, it d-doesn't matter what you write, just 'hi, Wendy,' that'll do fine. OK, Token, thanks a b-bunch. Y-you take care now." He punched the last button and the LED display went dark. "OK," he said, turning to Wendy, "now check your email."

Wendy went over to her laptop, turned it on, and checked her email. There was a new message.

FROM: Token Black

SUBJECT: Hi

Msg: Hi, Wendy.

A little "beep" sounded from Butters' shirt pocket.

"Okey-dokey," said Butters, "now we gu-got to go to this other thingie over here. . ." He pulled out something that looked a bit like a PDA and showed it to Wendy. "Aaaaand. . . . here it is." The screen clearly showed:

TO: Wendy

FROM: Token Black

SUBJECT: Hi

Msg: Hi, Wendy

"Oh, my God," gasped Wendy. "What is that thing?"

"See that little st-sticker on your laptop?"

"Where?"

"It's kinda t-transparent. 'Bout the size of a postage stamp."

Wendy finally found it, a tiny clear plastic thing with "Save The Penguins" on it.

"Did you put that on there?" asked Butters quietly.

Wendy looked thoughtful. "No," she said. "I don't remember putting it on there."

"That's 'cause you didn't," said Butters confidently. "Eric did."

"What?"

"Yu-Yep. Look closer." He handed her a magnifying glass.

In incredibly tiny lettering at the very bottom of the sticker were the words: "Chaos Labs, Inc. Howdy, neighbor."

"But—how did you get hold of Token?" said Wendy.

"Oh, th-that was easy," said Butters. "I just hit the l-locator button on 'im."

"What?"

"Token," Butters explained patiently, "has got a l-locator implant in 'im. You remember seein' Token 'bout, maybe, two years ago?"

Wendy thought hard. "Yes," she said finally. "The Kennedy Center. He was playing a concert and we met him afterwards at a reception. I mean," she said, "Eric and I did."

"Uh-huh," said Butters, "an' I bet Eric gave 'im a n-nice big f-friendly slap on the back."

Wendy winced. Cartman had stuck on a post-it note reading "I'm a black asshole" and Token had been really aggravated. No one had actually seen Cartman do it, but Token had known. Which was why they hadn't kept in touch.

"That," said Butters, "had a little locator implant st-stuck on it. They go really deep, and they're really t-tiny. They work kinda like those r-radio collars on lions. Any time Token gets near an electronic device," he continued, "_any_ electronic device, this dingy here," showing her the thing that looked like a cell phone, "p-pulls in a signal. So you can call the closest phone—which in this case, b-belonged to Wynton Marsalis—and you'll get T-Token."

"Even unlisted numbers? Even cell phones?"

"Doesn't m-matter," Butters insisted. "Now, I asked Token ta send ya an email. As soon as Token sends anything, _this_ little whosamajinger," he showed her the PDA like thing, "r-rings or buzzes or whatever. Ya whip it out and there's a c-copy of the email he just sent."

Wendy frowned. "Why are you screening my email?" she said.

"Oh, _I'm _ not," said Butters. "This here's Eric's su-screener. Yep," he said proudly. "He p-prob'ly sees your email before you do."

"Email from Token?"

"I'm n-not sure," Butters admitted, "but I think he's got a t-tracer on Stan, on Token--p-pretty much on any guy you ever went out with from th-third grade on, or anyone he thinks you _might _have gone out with, or who might have w-wanted to—and prob'ly Kyle, too, just because. Only people I'm p-positive don't have tracers on 'em are D-Dougie, Filmore, an' me. An' Eric wouldn't bother with Dougie or Filmore."

"But—but why?" stammered Wendy.

"'C-Cause he's crazy," said Butters simply. "'Cause he loves you, but he's still r-real crazy. You oughtta know that."

"Chaos Labs?" she said. "My God. This is awful, Butters. Can you imagine the sheer destructive possibilities of those things?"

"Yu-yeah," said Butters happily. "They su-sure raise heck, don't they?"

Wendy had never seen Butters look this mischievous before. On someone else, someone with a less innocent face, she might have said—evil.

"Cartman made these?" she said, her voice half wonder, half horror.

Butters snorted. "Naw. E-Eric's just a salesman. He wu-wouldn't have any idea how to th-think up any of this stuff, let alone f-figure out how to make it work."

"So—Eric's not some kind of evil genius?"

"Heck, no," said Butters.

"Good."

"_I'm_ the evil genius."


	5. Things Are Looking Up

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter Five: Things Are Looking Up

Butters told the taxi driver to let him out at the U.S. Capitol building.

He was still feeling a little fragile. Between the sudden trip, and then being screamed at by Cartman, and then being screamed at by Wendy, and having to figure out why Cartman was being accused of espionage, and worrying about jail, and whether or not his Mom would remember to feed the hamsters, he was, not to put too fine a point on it, a nervous wreck.

He sat down on a bench and shivered. Why had he asked the taxi to put him down here? It was well after business hours, and while surely a lot of staffers must still be working in the office buildings, it was much too late to go back to Cartman's office and start figuring things out, especially if he was trying to look like an innocent tourist from Colorado or some annoying constituent with an axe to grind about regulating gas stations.

And gosh darn it, he'd forgotten to call his Mom, too. She must be worried _sick_.

He pulled a cell phone—just an ordinary one—out of his pocket, and dialed his Mom.

"Hello?"

"Hu-hi! Mom, I'm su-sorry I forgot to call earlier," he began.

"Oh, that's all right, honey," she said, and oddly, she sounded as though maybe it was.

Years of _not _saying what he was thinking and knowing his Mom never did either had given him very sensitive antenna for figuring out the difference between "Oh, that's all right," meaning, "It's not all right and don't ask me about it," or "It's not all right and I'm going to sulk until you guess what it is," or sometimes, rarely, "Oh, that's all right." This one sounded like it might be the last one. He'd missed something in the conversation.

"--just got back," she said.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"I said, I just got back from a meeting. Your friend Filmore wants me to be on the new Arts Council. He says he's always admired my use of color in the house and thinks I could be a real help."

Well, Mom had certainly _painted_ the house enough times, but always the same shade of pale green.

"So we met and we split up into subcommittees, and I'm on the visual arts one—that's the one that's going to be working on starting the art museum—and meanwhile we're going to be taking classes and things, trying to encourage more people to get involved. And afterwards I got talking to Liane Cartman—your friend Eric's mother, you know, the one that's a Congressman. Did you know he was _arrested_ yesterday?"

"Uh, no, really?" Butters said.

"_Terrible._ He's in jail and everything. Well, she feels just awful, you can imagine, but I couldn't help but think how absolutely _wicked_ he was when he was a little boy. The language he used! I feel just terrible for her, but I am _so _proud of you, sweetie, because thank _goodness_ I'll never have to worry about _you_."

"Uh, I su-sure hope not," he said.

"Well, of course not. Butters, I hear outside sounds. Where are you calling from?"

"Outside the Capitol building, Mom."

"It must be late there. Are you sure it's safe for you to be wandering around Washington so late at night?"

Actually, he wasn't sure. "I'm just gonna grab a quick bite to eat, Mom," he promised, "an-an then I'll go straight back to the hotel. Bu-bye, Mom."

"Bye. Love you." Huh. Well, at least Mom was keeping busy. That was one thing off his mind.

Wendy had been much too upset to go out to dinner, and she hadn't been hungry. In fact, even though she had eventually believed him, her mood hadn't improved much, and it hadn't occurred to her to offer him anything to eat. And he was hungry.

He began to wander around, looking for a place to get something to eat. Nothing big—a sandwich would be fine. He passed some office buildings, and the Supreme Court Building, and the Folger Shakespeare Library. He noticed that Terrance and Phillip were actually performing _together_ there, live—_The Comedy of Errors_, it looked like. Wow, that might be worth suffering through some Shakespeare to see, if he had time.

Aha. A twenty-four hour Harbuck's. That seemed about right. He trotted over and went in.

There weren't that many people in Harbuck's at that hour. Probably first thing in the morning and at lunch it was mobbed, but now, mid-evening, there were just a few people drinking lattes and reading papers and a young woman behind the counter.

He looked down into the glass case of sandwiches. Ham or turkey? Ham or turkey?

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

He straightened up and smiled apologetically. "Oh, uh, su-sorry, ma'am," he said, "just tryin' to make up my mind."

"Take your time," she said. "There's no line behind you. You should see this place at 12:30—it's nuts." She crossed over to refill the napkins on the self-serve counter. He bent back down to the sandwich case.

Ham. No, turkey. No, ham.

She stopped behind him, frowning. "Have you been in here before?" she said.

He straightened up again. "No, ma'am, I just got here today. I'm just a tourist," he added hastily.

"Oh," she said. "Well, do you know what you want yet?"

"Yu-yeah," he decided. "I guess I'll take the ham sandwich."

"Anything to drink?" said the coffee girl, who was wearing a name plate that said _Carrie_. She turned to the machines, ready to start doing mysterious things with coffee. "Espresso, latte, double –shot? Kenyan? Kona?"

"Uh, no," said Butters, apologetic again, "I—um—I really don't like coffee all that much."

She whipped back around, light-brown hair whipping behind her. "You—excuse me?"

"I don't care about coffee, really," he said. It occurred to him that this might be an impolite thing to say to someone whose life, presumably, revolved around coffee. "Um—sorry."

She placed her hands together and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. "Thank _God_."

"Huh?"

"A man who doesn't care about coffee. Please tell me," she said earnestly, "that you don' t care about wine, either."

Butters was completely confused now. "Well, no," he admitted. "I mean, I'll d-drink it if Filmore—that's my friend back in South Park—if he says I g-gotta have it with something he just cooked, but most of the time I'd just as soon have g-ginger ale. It makes him kinda mad."

"So, then, you'd like. . . "

"Oh, just cocoa. If ya got it."

"Oh, we got it," she said cheerfully, pouring some out. "Hey, where did you say you were from?"

"Uh—I d-didn't, exactly, but South Park. C-Colorado."

"Never heard of it," she said, and slid a paper cup of cocoa over to him. "Watch it, that stuff's hot. With the ham sandwich, that's 7.98," she said, ringing him up, "although," she added, "it's funny you say that—I just got back from Colorado myself. But I never heard of South Park."

"Well, it's k-kinda small," Butters said, picking up some napkins from the self-serve counter. "We're 'bout an hour and a half north of Denver."

She slopped water on the counter.

"Oh my gosh," she said. "You're the mechanic who looked at my car."

He looked more closely at her. He hadn't noticed her hair before, because it had been up in a scarf, but---yeah, it was the same lady from—geez, was it yesterday? Kinda pink face even without a cold wind on her, band of freckles across the nose, eyes—well, that was gettin' kinda personal, he thought, he shouldn't stare, but it was definitely the same girl. "Y-yeah," he said, "you were in the gas station—gosh, yesterday!"

"Wow! Yeah! You were the mechanic!" she said happily.

"Y-Yeah!"

"Who didn't do anything for my car!"

"Um," said Butters, "well, yeah. . .su-sorry about that," he said, unwrapping his sandwich. "Uh, did Kenny. . . " he trailed off and decided just to chew.

"Oh, Kenny was super," said Carrie. "He just reached on in there with a coat hanger and some newspaper and some Gummi worms—well, who knows what he did, but it got the car back to my friend's house in Denver and we made the airport ok."

"Mmmph," said Butters, mouth full of ham sandwich, and swallowed. "Su-sorry, I mean, glad to hear that. Sorry I wasn't more helpful."

"You say 'sorry' a lot, did anyone ever tell you that?" she said, handing him some extra napkins.

"Su-so---I mean, really?"

"Well, yeah," she said, "not to get personal on you or anything. It's just that you don't have to apologize. You couldn't fix the car. You said you couldn't. You didn't lie about it and pretend you could. You filled up the gas tank and told me where I could get it fixed, and it got fixed. No big deal. You did pretty much everything you _could_ do."

Butters blew on the cocoa and sipped it. "I never thought of it that way," he said, but he thought, _whew_. _She must be the only person all day who hasn't expected me to fix something impossible and then yelled at me for it. _

Usually, he thought, you do expect that a garage mechanic ought to be able to fix your car. Maybe you don't expect someone to get you out of jail or fix things up with your furious ex-fiancée or make your gay ex-husband decide to be straight and to come back to you, but you _do _expect that a garage mechanic can fix your car. He looked up at her and smiled, and it felt like the first non-anxious, easy, untwisted smile in a very long time. She smiled back. She had a nice, friendly smile.

"So you're Carrie, then," he said. _Carrie_. Something went "ping" in the back of his head, but he couldn't place where he'd heard that name before.

She shrugged at her nameplate and laughed. "Good guess. I'm sorry, I don't remember your name, though."

"Leopold," he said, "but nobody ever calls me that. Everyone calls me Butters. Butters Stotch."

"Butters Stotch? Like—butterscotch or something, is that why they call you that?"

"I dunno," he admitted, "either that or the hair, probably, but everyone's always called me that for as long as I can remember."

"Butters Stotch—like butterscotch; pretty easy name to remember," she said.

By now his sandwich was gone, and his cocoa was gone, and he couldn't think of any excuse to stay any longer. He stood up.

"I better be going," he said awkwardly, "it was nice runnin' into you. Thanks for the sandwich and the cocoa."

"It's what we do around here," she said, and added, "Hope you have a nice time in Washington."

"Oh, I will," Butters assured her, forgetting for the moment what he was in Washington for. "Well. . . .bu-bye." He pushed at the glass door.

She waved at him. "Bye, Butters!"

He walked down the street until he reached the corner, stood still for a moment, and smiled. Life sure seemed _so much better_ when you had a ham sandwich inside you. He took a deep, deep breath of damp, muggy, polluted Washington air and walked all the way back to the hotel.

He took the elevator back to his room, took another hot bath—just because he could; ate some of the ridiculous fruit basket Dougie and Filmore had sent him—just because he could; and slid into that nice bed with the comfy sheets. He curled himself up in a ball like one of his pet hamsters and slept: without screaming himself to sleep, and without screaming himself awake, either.

* * *

Author's note: "Things Are Looking Up" is the title of a song by George and Ira Gershwin. Fred Astaire sings it in _Shall We Dance_ Go check the lyrics. 


	6. Helen of Troy and Colonel Sanders

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter Six: Helen of Troy and Colonel Sanders

Butters was awakened the next morning by the ringing of the phone next to the bed. He grabbed for it.

"Hu-hullo?" he yawned.

"Morning, Butters," said Clyde. "I looked over those documents you brought out and I think I've got some good news. Can I join you for breakfast?"

"Sure," said Butters, rubbing his eyes and looking at the clock. 7:30 am. 5:30 am Colorado time. Ouch. "Wh-where do ya want me to meetcha?"

"There's a lounge up there on your level," said Clyde. "They've got a breakfast spread. You didn't know that?"

_Nope_, thought Butters.

"I see," said Clyde. "All you have to do is call the concierge."

"How do I do that?" said Butters, looking at the phone.

"You hit the button on the phone that says 'concierge," what do you think?" said Clyde impatiently. "Haven't you ever stayed at a hotel before?"

"Sure," said Butters defensively. "When Aunt Nelly took me up to Yellowstone we stayed at the Days Inn. I know all about hotels."

"Uh-huh," said Clyde. "OK. Just tell the concierge that your lawyer Clyde Donovan is coming up to breakfast with you and they'll take care of the whole thing. I'll see you up there." Clyde clicked off. Butters sighed, and hit the button Clyde had told him about.

"Hu-hello? Mrs. Concierge? My f-friend Clyde Donovan wants to come up to breakfast—can he come?"

Mrs. Concierge was very nice about it.

* * *

Clyde was waiting for him when he got to the lounge. He clearly wanted to tear into the little twisty roll things and muffins, but he was very polite and waited for Butters to sit down and say good morning to him first. _Then _he tore into the little twisty roll things.

There were a lot of different things to drink in pots. Butters poured himself some orange juice and then thought he'd also try some coffee. Nope. He still didn't like it.

"So," said Clyde casually, "you and Cartman seem to be doing very well in the _gas station business._"

Butters swallowed some twisty roll thing. "Wu-what. . . didja . . . " he began.

Clyde held up a hand. "No, you don't have to tell me. But think about it. Cartman gets arrested for espionage. He says you're the only one who can help and won't tell me a thing. You show up in a limo. You're staying in a five star hotel on the _Mandarin Level. _You don't even know what that is, do you?" Butters shook his head. "Unbelievable. Well, I live here in DC and I do. You get all kinds of special perks up here. Free breakfast, valet service; whatever you want, all you have to do is hit that button on the phone and they will kill themselves trying to get it for you. They'll get you Stephen Colbert popping naked out of a cake, if that's what you want."

"Who's Stephen Colbert?" said Butters.

"Never mind. The point is that either _you_ just robbed a bank_ or_ this has something to do with Cartman and probably with those espionage charges, too. I always wondered how he made all that money. You don't have to tell me what's going on. All I'm asking is that you give me enough information to get him off and keep you out of trouble."

"Oh. . . OK," Butters said.

Clyde sat back in his leather chair and looked out the window for a long time. "I never would have believed I'd be defending Cartman," he said finally. "I'm trying so hard to help and he isn't cooperating at all. I don't even know why I'm bothering. I keep thinking about when he and Stan and Kyle auditioned for friends."

"They did?" said Butters. _How had he missed that?_

"Yeah," Clyde said. "Right after Kenny died that time."

"Oh," said Butters. "It wasn't _right _after Kenny died," he added after a moment.

"You know, I think you're right," said Clyde. "I don't know why you weren't in the lineup. Anyway, I didn't make the second cut, and it really pissed me off at the time. I told them to their faces that the whole thing was stupid."

"I've never been an in the face kind of guy," said Butters.

"I know you're not. Cartman was an asshole to me a couple of times, and he's been an asshole to you over and over and over, and here we are, still trying to help him out." Clyde shook his head. "But it doesn't matter how big an asshole he is; I don't want him in prison if he hasn't done anything. And," said Clyde, turning back to Butters and fixing him in the eye, "I don't want _you _in prison either, Butters. Prison is not a nice place to be. Got it?"

Butters nodded. Jumpin' Jesus. He had forgotten all about that for a while.

"Don't look so scared, Butters," said Clyde, packing up his papers into his briefcase. "There's a good side, too. I'm supposed to meet with the judge right after breakfast. I'm almost positive I can get the tax evasion charges dropped. Those papers really helped. You keep bringing me stuff like that and we'll be home free in no time. Now, here's what I suggest. Go and visit the congressmen and the Senators from Colorado. Say you're a tourist from there. You'd be surprised; people do it all the time. Mention you're from South Park, say you went to school with Eric Cartman, see what they tell you." He stood up, picked up his briefcase, and headed for the door.

"But," said Butters, "why would they tell me anything?" Clyde turned around.

"Butters," said Clyde, "my friend Token tells me that sooner or later, everyone tells you everything. And he's right," he said, smiling. "I just did it myself."

* * *

Butters thought Clyde's idea was a pretty good one. It was certainly the only idea he had, anyway, and he was just about to head for the Congressional offices when his phone rang again.

"Good morning, Butters."

"W-Wendy?"

"Where are you staying?" she asked.

"I—I th-think it's called the Oriental something or other," said Butters, looking at the big leather guide in his room.

"The Mandarin Oriental Hotel?"

"Yu-yeah."

"OK. I'm driving out to see Eric. I'll pick you up about 10:30. Wait for me at the driveway."

"Um, Wendy? What were you p-plannin' on tellin' him?"

"I don't know yet," she said grimly, and hung up.

He killed some time trying to figure out what he was going to say to all those Congressmen and then went to meet Wendy. She was driving a very responsible-looking gray hybrid car.

"Here," she said, as he sat down in the passenger's seat and buckled the seat belt. "Hold this." He grabbed hold of "this" and discovered that "this" was a bucket of chicken. This looked like a good sign.

Wendy hardly spoke to him all the way out to Alexandria. He called Clyde, who called ahead to alert the officers that Congressman Cartman's fiancée and his friend from Colorado, who was also a defense witness, were on their way and that they expected to see him. The guards were very nice about letting them in, but they balked at the chicken. Butters' instinct was to let it go. Not Wendy.

"It's chicken, for God's sake!" she yelled. "It's from a franchise. It doesn't have tiny explosives strapped under its wings; it's already dead! Just let the poor thing alone!"

"Uh, ma'am, that's not funny, ma'am. We're just trying to protect you here, we're trying to keep terrorists from—"

"And I _so_ appreciate your efforts to keep the world safe for Chickenocracy, your motto is clearly Fried and Free, but I still expect that chicken to make it, unmolested, through the screening devices."

They actually let her do it, too.

"Now," she said to one of the officers, "I want you to hang onto this. On _no account _bring it into the interview room; he'll smell it and it'll all be over. Just wait until I wave. And all the skin had better be still on it."

* * *

"You've got visitors, Congressman," said one of the guards. "Same guy who was here yesterday, and I guess he brought his girlfriend or something, or maybe she's your girlfriend. She sure seems pissed at _somebody_."

Yeah, thought Cartman, he wasn't surprised. Still, Wendy—it _had _to be Wendy--was here, and Butters was here, and that was probably good news. He allowed them to put the cuffs on and went off to the interview room.

Wendy was there on the other side of the plexiglass, pacing back and forth, black and angry, like an especially restless panther, while Butters huddled nervously on a chair. She wheeled around and glared at him as he came in.

Instinctively, he pulled his wrists up to shield his face, cuffs and all. _Not like this_, he thought. Stan, and Kyle, and Clyde, and Butters, and a few other people had seen him in prison clothes, but not Wendy: she'd never seen him like this before. And he couldn't face her.

* * *

Cartman didn't look very good, thought Butters; he looked as though he hadn't been sleeping, his hair was a disheveled mess, the orange jumpsuit looked as though it might be on its second or third day, and he was still cuffed: Clyde must not have been able to get through to the judge yet. But the real difference was that now he was unnerved. He seemed to be shielding his face.

"Eric," said Wendy firmly, "drop your hands. I've got something to ask you and I want to look you in the eye."

Cartman dropped his hands, but he was still blinking, as though he were afraid of her.

"Butters came over yesterday," she continued, "and told me this story—don't worry, I won't repeat it," as they both lunged forward to keep her from saying anything sensitive.

"It's all true," Cartman insisted.

"I wasn't going to ask you if it was true," said Wendy. "Sit down."

Cartman sat down.

"How long have you been spying on me with Token?"

"What kind of spying?"

"What?" She sounded startled.

"Do you mean the locator implant?" said Cartman. "We only developed that a couple of years ago. Or do you mean tapping his phone? I guess, if you count everything, probably since Chaos Labs got going—maybe ten, twelve years."

"You've been spying on Token for ten or twelve _years_?"

"Yeah," he said, "what's the problem?"

Wendy sat down, too. They were eyeball to eyeball now.

"Butters told me," she said, "that you have spent the last _twelve years_ starting this—this bizarre business; piling up money; running for Congress; 'destroying the competition'—I'm quoting him quoting you, I presume; and keeping half of the male former grade school population of South Park under heavy surveillance."

"Yeah," agreed Cartman, "that's about right."

"_WHY?_"

"The end justifies the means," he said stubbornly.

"_What_ end?" she demanded.

"Don't be dumb, ho. Mostly you, of course, although," he added, "being very rich and powerful does serioushley kick ass."

They stared at each other for another long minute, and then Wendy covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head.

"I give up," she said, and waved at the door. "Get him his goddamned chicken," she said to the guard who came in. The guard just stared. She glared at him. "What? He's hungry! And get those cuffs off, too! How's he supposed to eat it?"

The chicken had to go through a lot of security barriers again, and while it was on its way, Cartman stared at Wendy with his mouth open. Meanwhile, she scrabbled through an immense leather bag and came up with a diamond the size of the Capitol Dome.

"I th-thought you mighta lost that, Wendy," said Butters.

She sighed. "Well, I _did_ have to hunt around under a lot of radiators last night. Luckily, diamonds don't dent." She slipped her ring back on again. The chicken had finally made it to an uncuffed Cartman.

"I so totally love you," he murmured.

"Mmm-hmmm," she said, "save it for Colonel Sanders. 'Destroying the competition.' You're insane, Eric. Who do you think I am, Helen of Troy? You've got _Stan_ under surveillance, too?" Cartman nodded, mouth full of chicken. "Eric, Stan has been happily married to Kyle Broflovski for _ten years_. He's gayer than a basket full of leprechauns." Cartman swallowed.

"It _could_ be an act," said Cartman darkly. "And people change their minds." He went back to the chicken.

"Eric," she said with exasperation, "every man who meets me is _not _secretly in love with me. You'd be surprised at how resistible I am."

But, thought Butters, that wouldn't make sense to Cartman. To Cartman, she _was_ Helen of Troy, the most beautiful, most fascinating woman on the planet, and he couldn't imagine that every other man didn't think so too. Cartman being Cartman, passion took the form of paranoia. Personally, Butters thought that candy and flowers would have been nicer, but he wasn't Wendy Testaburger, and it didn't matter what he thought. Moreover, she clearly understood exactly how to communicate with Cartman. She didn't come running to see him, all tears and promises that she would still marry him, no matter what. She reamed him out, but she brought a bucket of chicken, and chicken speaks louder than words.

"You know," she said casually, "I _was_ going to have you killed, marinated, and braised over a low flame." Cartman looked up. "But I've decided," she said, "to do it to whoever put you here instead."

Cartman grinned. "_That's _my girl," he said, and they each put a hand on either side of the plexiglass, and smiled.


	7. Sightseeing

Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone. See endnotes for specific references

Chapter Seven: Sightseeing

Butters had Wendy drop him off at the Congressional offices and did what Clyde had suggested. He played tourist and dropped in on as many representatives from Colorado as he could. He brought along a digital camera and the congressmen were happy to pose for pictures, but so far, they didn't seem to have any helpful information. They were cautiously commiserating about his old school friend Eric Cartman and said that they hoped everything would work out, but they all really had to be going now.

By 3:30, he was tired of talking to congressmen. It seemed like a perfectly natural thing to go grab something warm to drink. Let's see—where was that place? Oh, yeah—there was the Supreme Court building, and there was that Shakespeare library, so Harbuck's must be right over there. And—he peeped through the glass window—Carrie was in there, too. He stepped through the door. He felt warmer already. And Harbucks was playing some kind of big band jazz as background music. He loved that stuff.

Carrie smiled as he came up to the counter. "Hi there! It's Butters, isn't it?"

"Yep," he said. "Butters Stotch."

"Let me guess," she said, "you want hot chocolate, right?"

Butters shook his head. "Nah," he said, "I th-think I'll have hot m-milk with some vanilla in it."

She reached for the steamer. "Whoo. Living life in the fast lane today, I see. So what have you been up to?"

He shrugged. "Oh," he said vaguely, "sightseeing."

"That's nice," she said. "Been to the Lincoln Memorial?"

"No," Butters said.

"The Aerospace Museum?"

"N-No."

"The National Gallery of Art?"

"No," he admitted.

"Hmm," she frowned, "for a guy who's going sightseeing, you sure aren't seeing many of the sights, are you?"

"I-I, uh. . . well, m-maybe I don't know where to st-start," he said lamely.

She turned away to pour out the hot milk and Butters heard the song in the background more clearly. Hey, he knew this one. Glenn Miller. His parents loved to dance to this one. He shook his head. His parents were such squares. He was, too. He started to sing along under his breath.

"_A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I._ . . "

"_Got a gal_," Carrie joined in, "_in Kalamazoo._ . . ." They looked at each other, startled.

"You know that song?" she said.

"Yeah, I love it," he said. "M-Mom and Dad used to d-dance to it all the time. You like it too?"

"Well, I ought to," she said, ringing up the hot milk, "I'm from there." At his puzzled look, she added, "Kalamazoo. I'm from Kalamazoo."

"Oh," he said, taking the milk. "Kalamazoo's a real p-place?"

"Yes, it is." From the tone of her voice, it sounded as though she heard this all the time. Feeling as though he might have flubbed something, he went to sit down by himself near the window and drank the milk. She waited on some new customers, but when there was no one else in line, she came up to him.

"I d-didn't mean ta say somethin' dumb," he said.

"I know," she said. "People say that a lot, but I shouldn't have gotten annoyed with you. It's not your fault."

"Oh, th-that's ok," he said, staring down into the milk. There was a pause.

"It doesn't sound as though you're having much fun here," she said.

"Not a lot," he admitted.

"Well, that's Washington for you," she said, "a city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm." She hesitated, then said, "I've lived here a while. I don't want this to sound wrong, and I definitely don't usually do this, but you seem. . . "

_I seem what? _thought Butters.

"Harmless," she finished.

_Oh_, he thought.

She continued, "I'm supposed to finish my shift in about fifteen minutes. If you want to, I can show you at least one sight you definitely shouldn't miss. Oh," she gasped, turning even pinker than usual, and putting her hands on her cheeks, "that came out _very _wrong. I meant a sightseeing sight."

Butters felt himself turning pink, too. "I-I knew what you m-meant. I d-did." They looked at each other, eyes wide, and then laughed. It seemed so silly. People were so dumb about things like this—she was just being nice because he was nice, and that was all. "Yeah," he said, nodding, "I'd love to do that."

But she was already gone. A silver-haired man in an elegant black coat was at the counter, looking annoyed.

"Sorry," she said, running behind the counter.

"It's all very well," said the older man, "to be friendly to the guests, but you mustn't ignore people. Especially not," he added, "_important_ people."

"No," she agreed.

The man leaned in and said quietly, but in a way that was perfectly audible all over the coffee shop, "We don't encourage Harbuck's employees," and he looked meaningfully at her, "to pick up dates with the guests."

Carrie turned a bright red. "I-I wasn't. . . . " she stammered, "I mean, it won't happen again."

Butters decided he hated this guy.

"There, there," said the silver-haired man, "I'm sure we'll do better next time, won't we? I shouldn't micromanage like this. I would like a grandissimmo decaffeinated non-fat mocha java latte," he added, "and I would like it to go."

Carrie got him his latte in silence and waited until he was gone, then took her apron off and punched out. She passed the table where Butters was sitting and slipped out the door.

He got up and jogged after her. "Hu-hey," he said, "you wu-weren't going b-back on whatcha said, were ya? I was lookin' forward to it."

"I probably shouldn't have done that," she said, looking uncomfortable.

"Aw," said Butters, "who c-cares what he thinks? You d-didn't do anythin' wrong. Su-say, who was that guy, anyway?" They began to walk down the block.

"You should recognize him," she said. "He's the Senator from Colorado. Senator Harbuck. He owns the whole franchise."

_And he's an asshole_, thought Butters, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. "That was r-really mean," he said instead.

Carrie shrugged. "No, he's not too bad, really—just thoughtless and rude. A lot of people are rude to people who wait on them. I guess you know all about that, huh?"

Butters had to think about that one for a minute. _Oh, right, _he thought_, I run a gas station_. "It ain't so bad in South Park," he said. "Everyone's real nice there. They think I'm an idiot, but they're n-nice ta me 'cause I'm _their_ idiot."

"I'm used to it by now," Carrie said. "He doesn't come in that often, anyway. And if you think _he's _bad," she added, "you should see his wife. The Senator can be a pompous dork, but the Boss Lady—she really scares me."

Butters pictured a tall, grey-haired lady with a snooty expression and glasses on a jeweled chain around her neck.

"Oh, let's forget about it," Carrie said, and smiled. "Come on, Butters. I'll show you the most beautiful art gallery in Washington."

* * *

"Wu-wow," breathed Butters.

They were standing by a large artificial lake with a stone edge and walkway, looking northeast. The late afternoon sun was behind them, falling on what seemed like a whole orchard of –

"Cherry trees," said Carrie.

And they were all in brilliant pink and white bloom.

They stood and looked at the cherry blossoms for a while.

"Wow," said Butters again.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" said Carrie. "I love art galleries—I practically lived in the National Gallery for a while—but this is my favorite, and it only happens in late March or early April. A lot of people plan their vacations around this. Did you know these were here?"

Butters silently shook his head. It was his favorite art gallery too, he decided, and he loved art. They started to walk around the edge of the lake.

"The Japanese gave them as a gift to the United States almost a hundred years ago," said Carrie. She put her hand on one of the tree trunks, and a few pink blossoms fell slowly down and lodged in her brown hair. "I love these," she said. "We've got lots of cherry trees back in Michigan, of course, but nothing like this."

Carrie. _Ping_. Michigan. _Ping_.

_Carrie from Michigan. _

"Is—is Kalamazoo in _M-Michigan_?" said Butters stupidly.

She took her hand off the trunk and began walking again. "If there's another Kalamazoo, I don't know about it," she said.

"Are—are you," he said, "C-Carrie from Michigan?"

"Of course I'm Carrie from Michigan," she said. "My name's Carrie, and you already know I'm from Michigan."

"No, no!" he said. _Geez—how do you ask something like this? _He stopped dead by the side of the lake and recited desperately.

"Hu-hi. How are you? I am f-fine. My name is B-Butters Stotch. I am nine years old. I am in the f-fourth grade and I go to South Park Elementary. I l-live with my Mom and Dad in Su-South Park, Colorado. I have two hamsters. Their names are F-Fang and Destructo. They are really cool. Well, I gu-guess I got to go now. Your friend, Butters Stotch."

She looked confused. He kept going, eyes closed, trying to remember.

"Hi, Butters. Th-Thank you for the letter. I am fine. My name is C-Carrie—C-Carrie--" –he stumbled over the last name—"and I am in the fourth g-grade. I am eight and three-quarters. I go to M-Milwood Elementary School. I live with my Mom and Dad in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I have a cat named—" he thought

hard—"P-Puff-Puff and a dog named Swanson, and I like to make p-pictures with glue. Hope you write b-back. Your friend, Carrie."

Carrie was dumbfounded. "You _remembered_ that?"

Then, together, "_That _was _you_?" They stared at each other.

"Yeah," said Butters, still stunned. "It m-must have been. P-Penpal Project. Fourth grade. Ms. Choksondik made us pick a su-state and then write to a kid in our grade who l-lived there. We pulled names out of a box. My-my cursive ju-just _sucked_ back then, too."

"I _do_ remember!" Carrie said. "We had to do the same thing. Almost all the kids got one letter and that was all. I mean," she said, "nobody wanted to _keep_ writing. So I wrote that I hoped you'd write back—"

"And I did," said Butters.

"You drew a picture of your hamsters on the back."

"Yeah," said Butters. "I've always liked hamsters."

"And then, after a while," said Carrie, "you stopped writing. Why?"

_This was going to be embarrassing_, thought Butters. He muttered something inaudible.

"I'm sorry?"

"I su-said," and he took a deep breath, "I was in j-jail."

Carrie blinked disbelievingly. "You were _nine_ and you were in _jail_?"

"Uh-huh," said Butters uncomfortably.

"What for?"

"For TP-ing the art teacher's house."

"Why? Didn't you like art class?"

"No," said Butters, "I _loved _art class. And I d-didn't TP her house, either. My friends Stan and Kyle and E-Eric did. But they caught me instead, and I r-really thought I musta done it. They shot me up with s-sodium pentothal," he added, as an afterthought.

Carrie shook her head and started walking again. "You really come from a strange town, Mr. Stotch."

"Yu-yeah. I guess," said Butters, walking along beside her.

"So what happened?"

"Wu-well," explained Butters, "first I was in j-jail, an'-an' I thought you'd be all m-mad at me. I told 'em I had a—" and he blushed, "a—a girlfriend in Michigan and that you'd be really mad. An'—an' nobody believed me about the TP, an' nobody believed me about you, either, an' my parents got all mad at me for sayin' I _did_ TP the art teacher's house when I _d-didn't,_ an' grounded me, and I guess," he finished, "I got to thinkin' I just, you know, um—made you up."

_And right after that_, he thought, _I met Lexus. What a mess._

He glanced over at Carrie as they walked north alongside the lake and rounded the north side. More cherry blossoms floated down from the trees and landed on her hair, on the shoulders of her gray wool coat, on the ground. She was so ordinary and so beautiful. What were the chances of his ever having found her again, the little girl who had written back, who'd thanked him for the hamster pictures, who'd drawn a picture of her house and her family standing in front of it? Practically zero. They could drag him off tomorrow and he might find himself wearing one of those orange jumpsuits and sharing a cell with Cartman, but even if they did, he'd still have to say that he really was an unusually lucky guy.

"Did you ever think," asked Carrie, "of trying to find me again?"

"I did," he admitted. "The problem was, I'd forgotten your last name."

She stopped again. He turned to look at her and had to shade his eyes. The sun was coming from behind her now, brilliant orange, setting the cherry trees on fire.

"Well, I think you'll remember it now," she said. "It's Wisnia."

She stepped closer. Her face became visible out of the glare and Butters could see that she was smiling.

"It means 'cherry tree' in Polish," she said.

* * *

They began walking back the way they'd come. Butters knew his hotel was somewhere around here. In fact, there it was, right across the street. And he guessed Carrie must live in this direction. Although, maybe not, come to think of it: this was a tourist and downtown area.

"There's a Metro stop not far from here," said Carrie. "I'd better get going."

Well, the least he could do was walk her to the Metro stop. And while he was at it, he was going to figure out _some_ way that he didn't lose track of this girl again. He wasn't quite sure how you did that—asked for a phone number, an address, or something—but he was definitely going to do it, whatever it was.

Carrie stood frozen next to him, her eyes fixed on a woman getting out of a long, sleek black car.

"Woo," she said. "Speak of the devil. It's the Boss Lady, Senator Harbuck's wife. I'm sorry, Butters, I don't want to run into her today. I'll see you later," she said, and was away along the block and down the Metro stairs like a rabbit down a hole before he had time to register whether she had or had not kissed him on the cheek. He sort of thought she had, but---

Son of a biscuit! How was he gonna get hold of her now?

Well, too late. He'd just have to hope he ran into her at Harbuck's again. By golly, he'd drink eight cups of cocoa a day if he had to. Whatever it took.

He crossed the street and saw the lady from the car—the woman Carrie called the Boss Lady—a bit more closely. She was sweeping up the steps of the hotel now, and there was something familiar about her. Butters walked behind her into the hotel.

She turned to go into the lounge and Butters could see her face. It was a little tighter, and she was a little thinner, and she was very, very blond, but still, she really did look an _awful_ lot like. . .

"_L-L-Lexus_?" Butters stammered.

* * *

Author's notes: "(I Got a Gal in) Kalamazoo" is by Harry Warren. It was one of Glenn Miller's biggest hits.

There really is a Milwood Elementary School in Kalamazoo. Its address is 3400 Lover's Lane. You can't make stuff like that up.

Puff-Puff and Swanson were, of course, early names for the character who eventually became known as Butters.


End file.
